


Nothing's Wrong

by willowydarling



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Anorexia, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Intervention, John tries to help, Pre-Reichenbach, Recovery, Rehabilitation, Sad, Sherlock has anorexia, mentions of drug use, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:21:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/willowydarling/pseuds/willowydarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After having struggled with an eating disorder for three years after relapsing, finally somebody notices that something is wrong with Sherlock. Something very, very wrong. Super angsty.</p><p>I do not give permission for this work to be published on any other site than AO3. The rights to this work belong to willowydarling.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Hammer Against Cloth

Sherlock stared down at the china bowl. A cheap miso soup. 45 calories. As the musky smell of the soup wafted up to his nose, Sherlock recoiled. He knew he was at a stage where he would have to eat sooner or later. He had now gone five days, four hours, two minutes, and fifty-eight seconds since his last morsel of food, a low calorie peach yogurt. No matter the price he would pay, he could not get a muscle in him to lift the spoon up to his mouth. _Eat for goodness sake. Just one mouthful. Think about what will happen if you don't. Think about the disappointment. You need to fix this. You need to fix yourself. Do it. Do it for John. John. John... What would John say if he realized just how bad it was? He would leave.. Nobody would want a fat freak for a flatmate... I still have so much weight to loose..._ Sherlock jumped quickly out of the hard wooden chair he had been sat in for a good hour with good purpose, startling John who sat a mere meter or so away, completely oblivious to the internal war that was ripping apart his best friend's mind and body apart limb for limb.  _  
_

"Where are you going?" John asked, realizing that it was late.

"Out." Sherlock replied with a huff, rushing his coat on and quickly tying his scarf around his neck, seemingly desperate to get out of the apartment. 

"Sherlock it's past nine, you really should sta-"

"I'll be fine John." With that, Sherlock slammed the door behind him and stormed off out of the door at into the cold London night. 

John had known since the day that they met that Sherlock had odd behaviors. However, recently John had begun to notice an even more odd tendencies in his good friend. Though Sherlock had always eaten the bare minimal to stay alive, he had begun to eat less and less as time passed. He frequently would run around London aimlessly, even more so than he already had. Sherlock now ran with seemingly no purpose, not being able to provide a reason as to why. John worried about his friends behavior. It had to stop. The main problem was that John could not seem to find out the why.  _Why_ did Sherlock do this? It wasn't an experiment, that was for sure. It most certifiably not for a case, Sherlock had gone three weeks without a case, having already shot at the wall several more times, to John's dismay.  _Sherlock is sick. He must be. Knowing that stubborn git, he wouldn't tell me even if he was on the verge of death._  With that, John quickly got his laptop and starting researching away to find out what was wrong with his flatmate. 

 

~SH~

 

 _Keep going Sherlock, I know you can do it._ Sherlock was on his sixth straight mile of running, without consequence. His chest was heaving dramatically, lungs burning like a little fire in his core, only the knowledge that running would make him skinnier kept him going. The pale moon in the sky watched over him eerily, illuminating the streets with an uneasy glow.  _I need to stop. I can't do this anymore. **You need to keep going.** I can't.  **You must.**  _London whirred by Sherlock quickly, the few people left on the streets reduced to a blur. His blood was pounding away in his ears like a hammer against cloth, thudding erratically and irregularly. On the verge of collapsing, Sherlock ducked into a near by alley. His stomach growled like a lion, a painful reminder of why he felt so drained. Attempting to regain some control of his breathing, the detective started deducing things he could about the alley.  _Teenagers snogged in here earlier after escaping a party. Girl has wealthy parents, boy is not so well off but tries to impress her any way. Easy. Boring. Dull._ After having somewhat regained his breathing, Sherlock realized he was in an alley just down the block from his Baker Street apartment.  _Well I guess that is enough running for one night._ Making his way back to the apartment, Sherlock counted all the calories he had burned in his head.

 

~SH~

 

As soon as he had set his aching foot in the apartment, Sherlock could tell that something was amiss. He glanced at wristwatch, seeing the time was almost eleven at night. He had been gone for just over an hour and a half. Yet, John was still sitting at his chair, appearing to type on his blog. As Sherlock inched slowly over to look at John with more clarity, he realized that he was typing, yes, but wasn't fully concentrating on the task and was instead watching Sherlock solemnly. Realizing that he wanted to talk, about something he would rather avoid talking about, Sherlock attempted to leave their cozy living room before John could say a thing.

"Sherl-" John began, only to be cut off for the second time that night by a quick, "Goodnight John." Shortly following the very brief exchange, John met the sound of Sherlock's door shutting with a punctual *click*. John rubbed at his tired eyes with the bottom of his palms, tired from waiting for Sherlock only to have him disappear at the first attempt at conversation. Even with all of his experience as a doctor, along with the extra research off of the internet, John still had trouble pinpointing what was wrong. All he wanted was to talk to Sherlock about whatever it was that ailing him. Aware that he wasn't going to be able to coax him out of his room, John decided that it would be best if he slept on the issue as to give him more time to think about what to say to his flatmate in the morning. After dragging his sluggish feet up the stairs, John slowly slipped off his day clothes and put on his pajamas. Heavy lids in tow, the blogger was eternally grateful that he did not have to work at the clinic the next morning. Slowly nodding off to sleep, John was glad that his friend was trying to get some sleep. 

Meanwhile down the creaky stairs leading up to John's private room, Sherlock was busy lying on his bed, staring up uninterested at the ceiling. He had realized that attempting to sleep was futile, as his muscles ached from all of their abuse.  _It's all worth it Sherlock. You'll be light as a feather. Your deductions will be sharper than ever before. You'll be completely unstoppable. Not even Mycroft will stand a chance against you. Mycroft is fat and heavy from all of the fattening cake he shoves in his mouth. You'll be beautiful and slender, a lean figure of strength._ Suddenly feeling a strong urge to see himself in the mirror, just to make sure he hadn't put on any weight in the past few hours, Sherlock sat up in an attempt to go to the bathroom, having difficulty, however, when white spots started dancing across his vision, like pixies in a summer breeze. Suddenly, the world was spinning around him like a dreidel, swooping like vines through a jungle, tangled and confused.  _Stop spinning. You can't pass out, not like this._ It was too late however, as Sherlock collapsed and toppled onto the floor with a dull _smack._

 

 

_~~~_

Please feel free to review! All comments are highly appreciated!

 

 


	2. Bland Toast

John woke up to the sound of a busy London street and with a speck of light hitting his eye in a way that made him squint and cringe. Knowing fully well that he had the day off, he took his time in sliding out of bed and letting his bare feet hit the cold floor. Stretching his limbs out and at the ceiling in the way a flower would turn and open to invite rain after a drought, John started shuffling his feet down the stairs of the Baker Street flat. Only after he had started to boil his morning tea and wipe the sand out of his eyes did he realize the peculiar manner in which he had arisen. Glancing swiftly around the apartment he noticed why it felt odd.  _Where is Sherlock?_ he thought hazily. As time ticked on the clock John began to slowly become more and more concerned at the lack of consulting detectives.  _He couldn't really still be in bed, could he? The man never sleeps, let alone longer than I have._ With growing speed John started to worry about Sherlock, finally going to the hall and realizing that his coat was still on the hook, sealing the deal on his presence in the flat. Understanding that the only place left in the flat for his flatmate to be was his bedroom, he hastily made his way over to Sherlock's door and rapped on it. 

"Sherlock? Sherlock are you in there?" John asked with a sense of urgency.  _Why are you worrying John? There is nothing to worry about. What if he is on drugs? Surely not._ The lack of response frightened John, raising the rapidly approaching panic level considerably. "Sherlock you aren't on drugs are you?" Still there was no response from his odd friend. "That's it Sherlock, if you don't respond or open this door in the next three seconds I am coming right on in there, do you hear me?" John slowly counted under his breath, and when Sherlock did not answer, he ripped the door open. 

"SHERLOCK!" John shouted, feeling the wind knocked out of him like he had been socked in the stomach as he looked at his unconscious friend lying sprawled out on the floor. Feeling the doctor in him kick into full gear, John practically sprinted to the heaping mess of a friend on the floor, reaching for his wrist. "Sherlock! Sherlock, do you hear me?" As John wrapped his army hand around Sherlock's wrist, almost recoiling as he realized just how skinny it was.  _He is so thin..._ Feeling the sluggish beat of Sherlock's heart did very little to reassure John, as it was much to slow to be considered remotely healthy. Suddenly, Sherlock started to stir, moving as feebly as a newborn infant. In a small attempt to completely wake Sherlock, John started pinching him in the arm.  _Oh Christ, there is barely any fat on this skeletal arm._ Just as John felt an utter terror creep up his skin, Sherlock jolted up, gasping for air. 

"Sherlock! Thank God you're awake, what happened?" John said, starting to realize he had no idea why his friend was a heap on the floor in the first place.

"John, I'm fine. Completely fine, now if you'll excuse me, I must use the bathroom" Sherlock said, attempting to disguise his once again approaching dizziness.

"I understand if you have to use the loo right now, but first we need you to eat some breakfast." At the words, Sherlock could have sworn he felt his heart stop for a moment. _Eat. No. I can't, not now not ever. But I have to, otherwise John will know... He will know how hard I have tried to loose weight and how even in doing so I have completely failed to be anything less than chubby._ Not seeming to notice Sherlock's inner turmoil, John helped the detective to his feet and they made their way to the kitchen.  

"I just boiled some water, so if you want you can have a cuppa. How do you want yours?" John inquired, not actually giving Sherlock the option of declining the tea. Turning around with the two cups, John looked up at Sherlock to see that his eyes were fogged.

"Sherlock, are you on drugs?" John questioned setting the cups on the table with a *clink* to reach up and check Sherlock's temperature. Before John's firm hand could reach Sherlock's forehead, he stepped away from John and started moving to the living room. 

"No John, I am just a little tired that's all, now if you don't mind I have important business to attend to,"  Sherlock called over his shoulder, and with that, Sherlock swooped his violin up off of his leather seat, starting to tune it with his perfect pitch. John looked over at his friend with worried, tired eyes. 

"No. You are coming here right now and eating some toast!" John practically shouted, not quite knowing why he had said it harshly the way he did. Regardless, John angrily grabbed some bread and slammed it into the toaster. John was going to believe Sherlock when it came to not being high, but he could still tell that something must really have been off. "Now I already asked but I'm going to ask again, what do you want in your tea?" Realizing he wasn't going to get out of it, Sherlock sighed and gently put his violin back down onto the chair. 

"Nothing please, and I want my toast bland if you." Sherlock ordered, sitting down in his chair with a flop, attempting to emit a sense of false boredom.  _He really is going to make me eat isn't he? I'll get fat... I can't do this, John can't find out until I've lost at least another stone. It's fine Sherlock, if you absolutely have to, you can always try and throw up. No, not try. You **will** throw it back up. _Before either of them could say any more, they started to hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Already, Sherlock's mind was whirring with the first proper deductions of the day.  _Rushed steps, but not urgent. Heavy set feet, but an average weight. Lestrade._

Just before the door could open, Sherlock half-shouted, "Good morning Lestrade, new case is it?" Just then, the door swung open revealing Lestrade clad in his usual outfit and hair slightly disheveled. 

"Real impressive at guessing it was me Sherlock, but I'm afraid we're really going to need you on thi-" Lestrade stopped mid sentence, having noticed the state of his consulting detective.   _Sherlock is so thin._ _He isn't on drugs again is he? I could break him with one hand. He must have lost at least a stone since I last saw him, and it's only been three weeks at that..._

"What is it Lestrade?" John asked and looked up at Lestrade, confused as to why the Detective Inspector had stopped speaking so suddenly, only to catch him staring at Sherlock.  

"Uh nothing John, we just need Sherlock for this one, triple homicide. Only thing that links the three of them is that each of them was found missing their left pinkie..." Lestrade rushed, still taken aback at the state of his good friend. 

"Well I guess that settles it then, come on John, go upstairs and get ready. We have a case!" Sherlock babbled excitedly. Sherlock was excited beyond reason about getting out of eating, acting like he had forgot about John and Lestrade, Sherlock practically bounded to his room, filled with a faux energy now that there was a case to solve, trying to prove to John that he had energy left in him. Lestrade waited until he heard the *click* of Sherlock's door before he grabbed John by the elbow and dragged him into the living room. 

"We need to talk."

 

 

~~~

Please review! All comments are welcome ^.^

(Next chapter should be up by tomorrow evening at the very least)


	3. 53.8

Sherlock strode into his room graceful as a doe, knowing he was under the close watch of his two friends. Wanting to have utter privacy, Sherlock shut his door with a *click*. Aware that nobody could see him now, as he had removed all of Mycroft's security cameras two days prior, Sherlock slowly started to strip to his underwear. Not wanting to risk getting caught, he quietly locked his door, as to not allow John or Lestrade to come in suddenly. Feeling confident that nobody would barge into his room, he went to his chest of drawers and opened the bottom drawer. After taking out all of the clothing, he removed the thin wooden panel that hid a secret compartment. Glancing nervously around the room like a child, Sherlock pulled out his treasures. Slowly setting the scale on the floor, his velvet drawstring bag of blue glass stones, and his food diary on the top of the chest of drawers, Sherlock clambered nervously onto the scale. 

**53.8 kg**

_No. No. No. That's far too much... I've only lost less than half a kilogram since last week, I cannot allow John to feed me. I don't care what he does, I am not letting him make me even fatter._ Sighing, Sherlock reached over to the glass bowl sitting on his dresser and took out one of the stones and put it in the small velvet bag. _Now I only have 53 stones in there._ Sherlock loved being able to see the visual progress of his weight loss, in more ways than just his own body.  _I wonder how many times John has seen this bowl, never realizing the significance of it._

Glancing over at his food diary, Sherlock realized that he still hadn't eaten, therefore he shouldn't have to put any new information into it. The diary itself was a fancy leather bound journal that he had gotten from Mycroft as a gift when he was fifteen. The cursive, golden initials  _S.H._ were inscribed on the front. Sherlock picked it up and thumbed the binding fondly. He adored the way it smelled of rain and old books, it reminded him of a time were he was still a young teenager, bent like a bow over his desk, fondly studying chemistry. Deciding that he didn't want to take too long, as to not arouse suspicion, Sherlock hurriedly got dressed. Swift as a fox, Sherlock pulled his everyday clothing on, tugging on his white suit shirt one and his coal black pants. As he tightened his belt, he realized that the tightest notch was too loose, and the trousers kept slipping past his hipbones. Grinning to himself at this small victory, Sherlock opened his wardrobe and pulled out a belt that he had bought himself in case the situation arose. The new belt was simple, a medium bland band with a golden buckle. Though his clothes hung off him loosely, Sherlock could not help but measure the width of his wrist using his thumb and pointer finger. Pleased with his progress, Sherlock moved over to his door, stopping when he heard two hushed voices conversing in the living room. Taking a deep breath, Sherlock opened the door. 

 

~SH~

"We need to talk."

John nodded gloomily, almost certain that Lestrade was going to comment on the state of Sherlock's health. 

"I need to know, right now, if Sherlock's been using," Lestrade whispered, barely containing his worry with more than just a glint of anguish in his eyes as he said so. 

Looking into his eyes as reassuringly as he could muster John said, "I know he isn't using, I've been home with him and I've already watched out for it. I don't know what is wrong though, he stopped eating. Look, I know that he already doesn't eat nearly as much as somebody his stature should, but I mean he has eaten a lot less. I don't know when the last time he ate was."

Soaking in the new information, Lestrade looked thoughtful, contemplating what to say next. Lestrade decided to take John's word on the fact that Sherlock was clean, though he still didn't like where the problem was going. He thought back to the first time that he realized that Sherlock didn't eat very much. Lestrade could still remember in detail what the experience was like. The two of them had just finished a case where a Lion very mysteriously disappeared from a local zoo. Sherlock had managed to prove that the zoo keeper in charge of feeding the lion had accepted a bribe to illegally smuggle it to the members Maasai tribe of Kenya residing in London, who had wanted more game. As a celebration, the entirety of the Scotland Yard had stopped by a fish and chips shop. Upon arrival, Lestrade and Sherlock had strolled to the ordering window. 

"Fish and chips, please," Lestrade had ordered.

Looking over to Sherlock expectantly, Sherlock had admitted that he wasn't hungry.

"Not hungry?! Sherlock we've been on this case, well you have been for the most part, for the past 48 hours! We didn't even have time to sleep! So order yourself some fish and chips, sunshine." The detective inspector gave Sherlock a smile, but his eyes still showed that he was stern, not willing to let Sherlock get off the hook. Looking taken aback, Sherlock took a moment to recollect himself before mumbling,

"One fish and chips please."

That first day was the first of many where Sherlock turned down food, sparking a whisper of an idea in Lestrade's mind. 

"John, when Sherlock actually does eat, what is it that he eats?" Frowning, John thought back at all the experiences he had in which Sherlock had actually eaten anything at all, realizing that the only foods he ever seemed to eat were bland toast, tea, and occasionally plain pasta. Thinking even harder, John noticed that when Sherlock ate, he never finished the entire dish. 

"Thinking about it, all he ever does eat is toast. The only thing he drinks besides water is the occasional cup of tea when I can convince him. Just this morning I walked in on him completely unconscious on the floor. I'm really starting to get worried about him, even more so than I usually do. I can really start to understand why his brother is so concerned about him all of the time." With John's words, Lestrade sat down on the sofa and put his head in his hands. 

"What are we going to do?" Lestrade sighed, "We can't have Sherlock go off and starve himself to death, can we?"

John gave this some thought, replying, "I think what we should do is take Sherlock to this crime scene, give him the distraction it looks like he needs. After the case, I'll take him to Angelo's and see how he does there. I'll try to get him to order something, I know that he hasn't eaten in a few days so with provocation he shouldn't deny food. If he still doesn't eat anything, I'll give you a call to see what we can do next." Lestrade appeared to have agreed with John's idea, and was about to reply, when Sherlock strode in the room.

 

~

Please Review! I've been working on the overall plot line of how I want things to go, so I have a pretty good idea in the direction I want this story to go. However, I am completely and utterly open to any suggestions or ideas that you guys might have :) If you have anything that you want to see in later chapters, please let me know! ^.^ If I can, I'll have the next chapter up by tonight!


	4. German Butcher

The second Sherlock saw John and Lestrade still in the living room appearing to be in the middle of a conversation, he knew something was amiss. A single glance at Lestrade revealed that he was worried and poorly attempting to conceal it. A second glance at John confirmed that they must have been talking about something upsetting, as John also looked as though he was trying to feign calmness. Coming to the conclusion that John was certainly attempting to hide something due to the obvious fact that he had stopped talking just as Sherlock entered the room, Sherlock gracefully walked to the table to grab his mobile. Feeling two pairs of eyes still on him, he turned to John and said,

"John? Why are you still down here? You need to go upstairs and get dressed, we have a case, remember?"

Looking slightly guilty, John replied, "I know Sherlock, I just wanted to catch up with Lestrade. We haven't seen each other in three weeks, so we wanted to go the pub later on to get a pint." With that, Sherlock seemed satisfied enough to let John continue. "So I'll just be getting upstairs and putting something other than my pajamas on." John scurried out of the room and when Sherlock could hear that he was almost at the top of the stairs, he turned to Lestrade. He was about to say something when Lestrade said,

"So... How are you doing these days Sherlock?" Lestrade asked warily, nervous that saying the wrong thing would upset Sherlock, preventing him from making any further conversation. The detective inspector took in Sherlock's appearance, grimacing internally when he saw his bones protruding through his clothing. Sherlock's hair was slightly ruffled as though he had only just woken up, his eyes were sunken craters in his face, and he honestly resembled the corpses that Lestrade had seen in drugs dens. It didn't take his experience as a detective to see something was incredibly wrong, whatever that thing may be. 

"Fine." Sherlock replied briefly, before moving over to his leather seat, grabbing his violin, and beginning to absently pluck on the E-string. Sherlock stared into space, not seeming to be concentrating on anything of significance. In reality, the gears in Sherlock's head were spinning away, trying to figure out a way to avoid eating for the rest of the day, as it was obvious that he was going to have to sooner or later. Breaking the silence, Lestrade said,

"Want any tea? I saw that John had made you some right before I got here. I don't think it will be cold jus-"

"I'm fine, Lestrade, I don't know why you insist on staying here, we will be able to find the crime scene just fine on our own" Sherlock cut off. Looking at Sherlock with a sort of sad confusion, Lestrade decided to let it go and sit on the sofa to check his email for any updates on the case while the two of them waited in silence. A couple of minutes later, John came downstairs dressed in a plaid shirt and his usual black coat. Staring at Sherlock and Lestrade awkwardly, John waited until Lestrade nodded at him before they all silently made their way out of the flat. 

After a brief period of awkwardness while climbing down the creaky stairs, the three of them clambered into Lestrade's patrol car and set off to the crime scene, which was located just out of central London in a nearby park. The ride there was slightly long and had no dialogue except for the occasional update on how far away they were. If Sherlock noticed Lestrade looking in the rear view mirror to check up on him, he didn't mention it. John spent the time looking out the window as the colours rushing by him went from the grey of the city to brown and red of the park. Staggering out of the car and onto the grassy patch of land where the most recent victim was hidden by some bushes, John was grateful for some fresh air. The body was lying in a cluster of clovers and was already being intensely analyzed by the consulting detective. Meanwhile, John was taking in the surroundings. A few trees were scattered here and there, leaves just starting brown. It was sunny in London terms, with only a few clouds dappled here and there. John took in deep breaths, enjoying the fresh air opposed to the polluted London smog that he was used to.

Before John could even completely comprehend his surroundings, his thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's sudden shouting.

"Honestly Lestrade? You call me all the way out here for a murder this simple? Even you lot should have been able to figure this one out," Sherlock rambled, clearly having figured something out that nobody else could. When Lestrade gave Sherlock his typical 'you might think it's obvious to us but it really isn't' look, Sherlock continued, "You can see on the joint where the metacarpal meets the phalanges has an almost clear cut. The only kind of knife that would be able to supply such a clean cut through a joint is a common butcher knife. The cut also has missing gap, suggesting that the knife has a slight, very slight, chip in it, making it identifiable from other knives of the sort. Even though a relatively large amount of people own butcher knives, this was expertly done. That means the person who cut off his finger must have been doing it on a regular basis, practiced it for a living perhaps. Also, judging by his breath, he had eaten sausage just prior to the death. While there may not be any maggots here yet, there are maggot eggs, suggesting that the body was here less than sixteen hours. If you ask me, you're looking for a butcher in the area who also owns a restaurant, most likely German as the sausage had hints of curry in it meaning it was a German curry wurst." Just as Sherlock was finishing his deductions, his stomach growled incredibly audibly, causing turned heads from Anderson and the rest of the forensics team. Feeling his face go slightly pink, Sherlock mumbled, "Come along John."

John, however, was just staring at the consulting detective. He now had a concrete evidence that Sherlock must be hungry, even though he was avidly denying anything of the sort. Unaware of where it was that the two of them were going, John followed Sherlock like a loyal dog.

"Where are we going, Sherlock?" John inquired.

"Barts. Molly just texted me, new corpse that I can look at." Sherlock said, and with that, they hailed a cab. Climbing into the cab, Sherlock noticed that John was staring at him. "What is it John?" Sherlock asked, annoyed that the older man couldn't seem to stop staring.

"Uh, nothing, it's just I was thinking we should go out later to get something to eat at Angelo's. I heard your stomach growling, so you must be hungry." 

"Don't be ridiculous John, you know that I don-"

John cut Sherlock off, practically shouting, "No Sherlock. I don't care what you say, for goodness sake you were unconscious on the floor this morning! I don't know why you are being so stubborn about eating, but you're going to!" Breathing deeply, John was unsure what had taken over him. Looking in to Sherlock's eyes, he saw some emotion that he really couldn't put his finger on.  _Is it fear? Sadness?_ Before John could figure out what it was, Sherlock broke eye contact and stared gloomily out the window at the rush of London going past them. John started to wonder why Sherlock reacted in such a way at the simple suggestion. Mulling over it, John thought  _Maybe it's just Sherlock being Sherlock, knowing him he probably is just upset that I'm bossing him around and forcing him to take a break from his work._ Soon enough, they were getting out of the cab, Sherlock offering to pay the fee for the ride. They walked into Barts, and were in the morgue before they knew it. Just as they entered the room, Molly looked up from where she was preparing some equipment, body still covered by the sheet.

"Hello guys! Thought I would call you in Sherlock, this body really is an interesting one, he had-" Molly stopped when she looked at Sherlock, suddenly freezing. Molly turned pale as the corpse, as though she had seen a ghost.

"Molly? Are you okay?" John asked, puzzled and concerned at her sudden pause, looking at Sherlock in attempt to see what had frightened her. Molly starting stuttering, 

"Uh yeah I'm fine, it's just... Sherlock, have you lost some weight?" Molly rushed, staring right at Sherlock. Sherlock took a moment to consider what to say next, unsure of what her reason for asking was. Surely he hadn't lost enough weight to frighten her, had he?

"Only a little, yes. So what were you saying about the corpse?" Sherlock decided to tell the truth, even if it was only a half-truth. Molly looked Sherlock in the eye, hints of sadness at the very core.  _Why is she sad? Can't she just talk about the corpse?_

"Oh yeah, um, the corpse is quite young, compared to most of the people we get in here. Died of a heart attack, the poor thing," Molly commented, with a sympathetic smile, before continuing, "He had decided to donate his body to science."

"Heart attack?" John asked, breaking his silence, "How could he have had a heart attack if he were so young?" Molly froze on the spot. Glancing nervously at Sherlock, Molly decided to just show them. Slowly, with a feeling of the weight of the world on her shoulders, she pulled back the sheet until everything above the waist was showing. John gasped, feeling the colour drain out of his face, and Sherlock went even more silent. Every single rib of the man was jutting out of the ivory skin, skin stretching over the bone as tight as a balloon. His face was hollow and ashen, yet somehow less so than Sherlock's. His arm's were thin, practically sticks.

The man was anorexic. 

 

~

Hope you enjoyed this slightly longer chapter! As always, reviews are welcomed and encouraged. If anybody has suggestions or questions, feel free to comment! Since it's the weekend, I hope to get at least another chapter up by tonight. I had initially planned to post this yesterday, but I decided against it so that I could make sure it was a great as it could be :) Thanks for reading!


	5. Molly

The air in the room seemed to thin, John a cold statue, leaning over the corpse. Sherlock's brain was whirring with a million details, all centered on the lifeless body in the room. _I'm thinner than him.._.  _John looks pale as a ghost, why?_ Though Sherlock was a genius like no other, he could not seem to figure out why his flatmate was pale so suddenly. 

John was shocked beyond compare, how could a man get this thin? Hoping to break out of the thick silence, John said,

"So... How did this happen?" realizing that Molly seemed confused at the question he continued, "I mean how did he get so thin? Wouldn't his friends or family have noticed? The man is practically a skeleton." Sherlock looked up at that, perplexed at the use of the word skeleton. _Skeleton? He could still have lost a bit, after all, he is still not as thin as I am._ With that, Sherlock started to fill with an unhealthy pride, somewhat proud that the dead man couldn't get as thin as him.

"Well it says in his file that his friends did notice, tried to get him to get some help," lifting the clipboard with the man's information, Molly continued, "He was admitted at the hospital for three days after he had collapsed, says here at that point he hadn't eaten in four days. He'd started refusing food, coming up with silly excuses like he just wasn't hungry. He was actually packing his clothes so that he could get to a rehabilitation facility when his heart gave out. Sad if you ask me." The entire time, Molly kept glancing over at Sherlock, as though she wanted to say something, but just couldn't get herself to.

Starting to feel slightly uncomfortable, Sherlock said, "Thank you for the body Molly, but there isn't much I can do with it. Not enough remaining tissue to check bruising patterns, so if you don't mind me I'm just going to go upstairs to the lab for some research. Come along John." Sherlock then strode out of the room, attempting to stop the slight shaking in his legs as he did so. _Why must it be so cold in the morgue? I don't remember it being this cold in here._ Not realizing that John wasn't behind him, he made his way up to the chemistry lab mumbling to himself.

As soon as Sherlock had left the room, Molly looked right over at John.

"John, what happened to Sherlock?" Molly inquired.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I mean what happened that made him lose so much weight?"

"I don't really know, to be completely honest. He just started eating less and less. Lestrade and I have been trying to figure it out for ages. We think he might be sick or something, Lestrade was convinced he was on drugs again." John answered truthfully, puzzled that Molly was still staring at him in a very unnerving manner.

"John, you're a clever man but you're acting dim right now."

"Why?"

"John!" Molly snapped, "I seriously think that with what you've told me, and the state he seems to be in, Sherlock has an eating disorder!" The short outburst left Molly breathless and John suddenly felt the world crashing down around him.

"Oh my God..." John said, feeling sick. _Oh God... Oh my God... It makes so much sense, I... I can't believe I hadn't realized_ _before now..._ Before either of them could say another thing, they both heard the sound of someone moving away from the door quickly.

"Sherlock?" John shouted, running to the door, ripping it open, seeing Sherlock figure turn the corner. Bolting after him down the hallway, John tried to catch up with his flatmate. Rouding the corner, John saw Sherlock jolt down the stairs. _He knows now that I know, I need to stop him before he does something stupid._ "Sherlock!" he bellowed. Trying his best to catch Sherlock, John sprinted as quickly as he could. Just as he turned into the stairwell, he saw Sherlock already at the bottom, his coat whooshing behind him. John cursed under his breath, knowing that by the time he got to the bottom, Sherlock would be gone. Deciding against trying to chase him, he felt defeated.

Feeling tears starting to form in his eyes, he slid down the wall, into a crouch that screamed silently, anguish washing over him. _I'm supposed to make sure Sherlock doesn't try to do anything to himself, I've completely failed him... I need to make sure he's okay, I need to find him._ Poorly attempting to pull himself together, John made his was downstairs, sulking when he got a cab. _What am I going to do..._

 

~SH~

 

Sherlock began hyperventilating as soon as he got back to the Baker street flat. Sweaty and completely out of breath, the consulting detective began to feel an overwhelming feeling of panic spread throughout him.  _He knows. He knows now and he will kick me out. He won't want to have a fat flatmate. I've tried so much and now he knows how desperate I am to loose weight_ ,  _yet still failed..._ Sherlock frantically tore off his coat, flinging it on to the sofa along with his scarf. Noticing that he was hyperventilating, Sherlock thought, _I should sit down, just sit down in my arm chair and try to calm down. I am the king of calm, why am I panicking?_ Sherlock's breathing quickened even more, sitting down only helped in the slightest. _I need to get out of here_ , _I can't let John come back and see me like this._ Trying to stand, Sherlock felt his knees wobbling, making it more than difficult to get to his room. Just as he was getting to his bedroom door, black and white dots started dancing in his vision again, just like they had that morning. Opening the door, he realized that he had forgotten to put away his treasures in his rush to get ready. _Crap._ Feeling his vision start to black out, he slowly sank to the ground, unable to stand any longer.

Sherlock was in a half-conscious state for a completely unknown amount of time before he heard the front door slam loudly.

"Sherlock?!" he heard John call from downstairs. _No. He can't find me, I have to find a way to leave._ Struggling to his feet, he was busy trying to open his window to the fire escape when he heard John in the living room, still calling his name. _No no no no..._ Just as Sherlock looked over his shoulder to the kitchen, John noticed him.

"Sherlock!" John cried, running over to Sherlock whose legs were violently shaking.

"Go... away..." Sherlock wheezed, noticing that he was still breathing heavily. Cursing himself for being so weak, Sherlock attempted pushing John away to regain some dignity. His panic level was rising tremendously, ridding him of his ability to think straight.

"Sherlock, calm down. It's okay, there is nothing for you to be afraid of." John said soothingly, starting to rub circles in Sherlock's back. Suddenly, Sherlock was shaking. Not just shaking, but starting to rock himself. Sherlock looked up at John, to see a level of kind sadness that he had never seen in someones eyes before, at least not directed to him anyway. Before Sherlock knew what was happening, his vision started to fade, reducing everything to a hazy blur around him.

"John-" Sherlock mumbled, slurring badly. John was saying something to him, but he could not hear him. The last thing he saw before he blacked out was John, phoning Mycroft on his cell.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please review! I really love reading comments and I am open to suggestions or requests! ^.^


	6. Peach Yogurt

Sherlock woke up to the sound of a dull beeping coming from his right. _Hospital?_ Opening his eyes, he saw that he was still in his room, a makeshift hospital set up in his room. _Mycroft._ Groaning slightly, he attempted to lift his hands to pull out the IV, only to find they were tied down. Frustrated, Sherlock tugged on his restraints, finding that they weren't going to budge. Accepting that he wasn't going to get out of this, he sat there patiently, trying to figure out how long he had been in the bed. Looking around, he saw that his treasures had been moved to an unknown location and his and John's chair had been moved into the room.  _Somebody must have been in here to watch me._ Soon enough, Mycroft and John came walking into the room. Mycroft strode in, still wearing his composed mask on his face. John had walked in, shoulders slouching, looking much sadder than Sherlock had seen him in a long time. After having each sat down in the chairs opposite Sherlock, they stared at each other for several minutes in silence. Sherlock felt awful knowing he could do nothing to stop the IV in his arm from pumping calories into him. He could of sworn that he felt heavier, that his arms had more flab than before he had passed out. The silence in the room was so thick, it could have been cut with a knife.

John just looked over at Sherlock, an unreadable expression plastered on his face.

Minutes later, Sherlock broke the silence by saying,"Remove this IV from my arm," trying his hardest to come across as stern.

Mycroft just watched Sherlock and said, "Now you know why we can't do that. You are staying in that bed until you're at least a tinnier bit healthier."

"That's preposterous! Just untie me, this is completely unnecessary. I have work to be doing." Sherlock said, annoyed that he wasn't being allowed to leave.

"Sherlock," John said, "You're incredibly underweight. We can't let you keep starving yourself." John's voice hitched a little, but he swiftly pulled himself together again.

"I might be underweight, but I'm certain that I'm not starving myself. I'm okay, just untie me and I'll feed myself."

"Sherlock..."

"What is it John?" Sherlock asked, slightly annoyed that John wasn't realizing that he was healthy. He didn't have a problem, he just didn't eat as much as he should.

"Sherlock, we found your diary." John said abruptly, looking Sherlock right in the eye as he did so.

"That's nothing really," Sherlock said, starting to feel slightly panicked again. "That's just to help me keep track."

"Is that what the bowl of stones is for, too?" Mycroft asked. "I'm not stupid Sherlock, I know you have a certain distaste for particular types of decoration. If I'm guessing correctly, you're only around 53 kilograms right now. Brother mine, that is far too underweight."

Sherlock just lay there, fuming silently that Mycroft had said his weight out loud. "Brother _dear,_ I would like you to know that I am completely healthy. There is no need to keep me here."

"I know you may think you're healthy Sherlock but you're not. I think you simply don't understand how sick you really are."

"Mycroft, how can you say that I'm not healthy when I clearly have weight to loose." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. At that, John suddenly started staring Sherlock directly in the eye. Upset that John was staring, Sherlock averted his gaze to the window. All of his hard work was going to be ruined. He had to find a way to stop it, he had to find a way to blackmail them into making them let him go. Like the holy grail, Sherlock came up with an idea. It was a stupid idea, probably wouldn't work, but he was desperate for a way out.

"Sherlock, if you lost any more weight, you'd be on the table in front of Molly instead of that man." John said. Waiting for a response, John gazed expectantly at Sherlock. Sherlock just looked around the room, seemingly uninterested in what John had to say. "Sherlock?" Even though he obviously heard him, Sherlock just ignored him. "Sherlock you're acting like a child." Sherlock turned his head to look at John, still silent as a statue. 

"Brother mine, please cooperate. We really should have taken you to a clinic for rehabilitation, and we still might change our minds on that issue. " Sherlock shot Mycroft a look that screamed  _Don't you dare._ "After I leave, John is going to untie you, remove the equipment, and basically speaking set you free. We're going to give you two days to try and prove that you are getting better, if you don't prove yourself, we  _will_ put you in a clinic." Mycroft marked his exit by walking clear out of the room.

Taking his cue, John set about getting Sherlock out the of the restraints, the entirety of which was done in complete silence. After having his IV drip removed, Sherlock absently started rubbing his wrists. Even when John was done, he lingered in the room, moving back to his chair in front of Sherlock's bed. Sherlock just stayed in the bed, having moved to his prayer-like thinking pose, staring up at the ceiling.  _John is probably going to be expecting me to eat something. I assume that I will have to sooner or later. How many calories are in the drip I was on? How long was I on the drip? How can I burn the-_

"Sherlock?" John said, cutting through the silence. Sherlock continued to ignore him, thinking still about the calories consumed in his unconsciousness. 

"Sherlock." He just kept staring at the ceiling.

"Sherlock you need to speak with me, at least acknowledge that I am talking to you." At that Sherlock moved to an upright position, glaring at John expectantly. Realizing that Sherlock wasn't planning on speaking, John sighed and combed his hands through his hair.  _What am I going to do about this? He's not even speaking to me._

"Sherlock why aren't you speaking?" Ten agonizingly slow minutes went by.

"Sherlock please tell me why you're staying silent. I know that you told me the first time we met that sometimes you don't talk for days on end, but this is different. You know it is." The consulting detective looked at John, then swung his legs off of the bed. Overestimating his strength, he started to shake slightly at the knees. Noticing this, John moved over to help him, before he was cut off by Sherlock's stone cold glare. Backing away slowly, John silently watched as Sherlock struggled into the kitchen.  Sherlock glanced around the flat, then moved towards the fridge. Opening it, John watched as Sherlock had a glint of panic flicker in his eyes. Sherlock let his eyes wander over the contents of the fridge. After five minutes of consideration, he decided to go with a low calorie peach yogurt, the same thing he had eaten several, several days prior. Seeing the fear and pain in Sherlock's eyes was almost too much for John to bare. He looked as though he wanted to die, right there and then. 

Sitting down with the yogurt and a spoon, Sherlock slowly pealed back the foil covering of the dairy product. The pair spent several minutes in the kitchen before Sherlock moved to pick up the spoon, scooping a small bit of yogurt onto it, and sluggishly raising it to his mouth. He sniffed it twice before he finally putting it into his mouth, grimacing as he did so. John just smiled sadly at him, encouraging him to continue. Without any notice, Sherlock jumped up from his seat and grabbed his coat. Not giving John any chance to catch him, he jolted down the stairs.  _Christ not again,_ John thought before he ran down the stairs after his flatmate.  _How he even has the energy for this I haven't got any clue._ John did still have a lot more energy than his brunette friend, so as soon as they got to the bottom of the stairs, John tackled Sherlock to the ground. Sherlock gasped loudly, the breath having been knocked completely out of him. John wrapped his arms tightly around Sherlock the same way a boa constrictor would try to trap it's prey.

Before either of them could register what was happening, Sherlock started breathing heavier, much heavier. John looked down at him, puzzled at what he was doing. That's when he saw. That's when he saw it, the thing he was sure he would never see. Sherlock was crying. Not just crying, sobbing immensely, picking up speed rapidly. Tears streamed down his face and he started chocking and hiccuping, he was sobbing so much. John watched as the greatest man he had ever known broke down, crumpled into a mess on the floor. John didn't know when he started crying, too, all he knew is that he could feel Sherlock's pain.

It was the day Sherlock broke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It feels to me like this is a much shorter chapter, I don't really know why. Anyway, I hope you liked it! This chapter was hard for me to write, not just emotionally, but mentally. I spent ages figuring out how the great Sherlock Holmes would break. Hope you don't hate me! Please review! I accept suggestions and I really love hearing from you guys, even if it's just a quick hello :) Have a nice day!
> 
> [UPDATE] April 28, 22:16  
> I'm sorry but the next chapter will not be up until tomorrow. Writing the last scene of this chapter with Sherlock and John completely emotionally wrecked me. I spent a good hour and a half crying over my own stupid fanfiction. I made it so sad that even I couldn't handle it, and I was the one who wrote the darn thing. I don't know why I'm rambling so much, but I just wanted to say that it will only be up tomorrow.


	7. Sooner or Later

Sherlock never knew how long he had spent crying in John's arms. He hadn't cried since Redbeard had died. The feeling of crying had ripped through him, shredding his well-kept composure into pieces. He knew now that he only had a few options left. He could recover like he did last time, he could refuse to recover and get sent to rehabilitation, or he could refuse to recover and end up dead. Even after his heaving sobs had turned into soft whimpers, he stayed on the floor, protected by John's walls. It felt like hours later when the two of them finally started to lift themselves off of the ground. Helping Sherlock to his feet, John tried his best not to make Sherlock feel small. They climbed the stairs, Sherlock still exhausted from crying. He knew now that he would have to eat.

Slowly making his way back to the kitchen, Sherlock dragged his feet, attempting to stall and prevent the inevitable. Sherlock glanced around the room wearily, lightheaded from dehydration. When his eyes finally landed on the peach yogurt, his stomach did a leap. Plopping himself down on the chair, Sherlock resumed his previous position of simply staring at the yogurt. Sighing, John decided to clear the table in front of Sherlock a bit. Sitting down in the seat across from Sherlock, John smiled a sad smile and tried his best to encourage Sherlock without having him end up trying to run away like last time. Like déjà vu, Sherlock lifted the spoon, dipped it into the yogurt, and raised it to his mouth. Hand shaking slightly, he put the fruity yogurt into his mouth and swallowed as best he could without wanting to spit it out. This continued for a couple of minutes before all of the dairy product was finally gone.

Trying not to crowd Sherlock with the small cup, John picked up the empty plastic cup and threw it away into the bin, putting the spoon into the dishwasher. Turning around, John realized that Sherlock had moved over to the sofa while he was cleaning up. Pinching the bridge of his nose, John sighed deeply. _What am I going to do? I know that Sherlock must really be struggling but he was to gain weight, just a yogurt won't help._ After putting the kettle on, John moved to the living room. Sitting in his armchair, John got out his computer to check his blog for any updates. Glancing over at Sherlock, he saw the consulting detective was in his favorite prayer position, appearing to be deep in his mind palace.

"Sherlock?" John said, breaking the silence that had lasted well over an hour. Sherlock did not stir from his position, not acknowledging John's presence.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about this. I know that it must be really hard for you to deal with this, but whatever is going-"

"I'm fine John." Sherlock replied, not changing his position.

"No, Sherlock, you're not." At this, Sherlock opened his eyes and turned his body slightly to look over at John. "Sherlock, you're going to have to eat more."

"John..." Sherlock started, before quietly closing his eyes and breathing deeply through his nose. _I really am going to have to eat more, John's right. But I can't. I just can't do it._

"Please, Sherlock, talk to me. I want to help you."

"I don't need _help._ " Sherlock snarled, ripping his body to the side and trying his best to shield himself from John's glaring eyes.

"Whether you want to admit it or not, you really do." At that, Sherlock just curled up in on himself, making himself looks even smaller than his already skeletal frame did. Just then, the kettle finished boiling. John got up to pour two cups of tea, and moved back into the living room. Setting one of the cups down on the table next to Sherlock, John moved back to his chair to continue typing on his blog.

"This isn't the first time." Sherlock said about a half hour later, making John jump slightly. Looking over to Sherlock, John saw that he was still in the fetal position that he assumed over a half hour ago.

"What do you mean by that?" John asked, hoping that maybe Sherlock wanted to talk.

"I mean that this has happened before." Sherlock said, sounding tired. John started thinking to himself, _This happened before? When? Why didn't Mycroft notice?_

"How old were you Sherlock?" John asked, curious as to how long ago it was that he was last like this.

"I was 25, had just stopped doing drugs at the time."

"Did anybody notice? I mean, did anybody try to help you?

"No. You know yourself that people can miss it even when they know the person like the back of their hand." At this, John felt slightly hurt. _Is he upset with me for not having noticed?_ John frowned to himself, pondering what he should say next, if anything at all. Twenty or so comfortable minutes later, Sherlock spoke up again.

"Do you want me to move out?" Stunned, John straightened his slouching and firmly looked over at Sherlock who, not surprisingly, was still curled into a tight ball.

"Why on Earth would I want you to move out Sherlock?" The doctor asked, confused as to what had made his friend ask such a question. Not saying anything, Sherlock unwound himself and moved silently to his bed room. _Well t_ _hat was odd._ Knowing that Sherlock had not touched his tea, John brought it over to the sink while he put the kettle on to boil again.  _Why would Sherlock think that I want him to move out? It's his flat just as much as it is mine._ After thinking about what to do next, John decided to walk over to Sherlock's room to make sure he was okay.

"Sherlock? Are you alright?" John asked, leaning against the wall next to Sherlock's door. Hearing rummaging inside the room, John waited patiently for a response.

"I'm fine John." Sherlock replied a couple of seconds later.

"Are you sure? I don't really understand why you would think that I would want you to move out of the flat." 

"It's nothing John, please go away."

"You're not doing anything illegal in there, are you?" More rummaging came from inside the room before Sherlock responded.

"I'm completely fine John, and once again, please go away." Deciding it would be best to simply let him be, John moved back into the living room to do some browsing on the internet. He knew that Sherlock wasn't weighing himself or writing in the diary, as both were under lock and key in John's room. _What could he possibly be doing?_ Figuring that he wasn't going to find out unless Sherlock wanted him to, John just hung around the living room for a while, typing away on his blog. What John wasn't aware of, however, was that Sherlock was a mile away, completely out of breath.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not having updated! I got really busy with school work and have been putting off writing to study :/ Now that it's the weekend I will have at least two chapters up by the end of it, so prepare! Hope you enjoyed!   
> Please Review ^.^


	8. Coffeecake

_"I'm completely fine John, and once again, please go away." Deciding it would be best to simply let him be, John moved back into the living room to do some browsing on the internet. He knew that Sherlock wasn't weighing himself or writing in the diary, as both were under lock and key in John's room. What could he possibly be doing? Figuring that he wasn't going to find out unless Sherlock wanted him to, John just hung around the living room for a while, typing away on his blog. What John wasn't aware of, however, was that Sherlock was a mile away, completely out of breath._

Sherlock knew that he had little time before John discovered that he had escaped out of the window. He understood that if John found out he was exercising he would be furious, but he couldn't help it. He had to exercise. Feeling his hair go damp with sweat and stick to his forehead, Sherlock plowed on, racing through the streets of London. The consulting detective knew that if anybody recognized him, they would assume it was for a case. His lungs were starting to burn with desire for more air. Feeling his head start to feel light, Sherlock slowed down. It would do him no good to collapse and have not get home in time to avoid suspicion. Ducking into an alley to regain his breath like he had a few days prior, he let himself slide down to wall so that his head could go between his knees.

After a couple of minutes of deep breathing, he started to hear steps approaching him from the main street.  _Rushed steps, but not urgent. Heavy set feet, but an average weight. Shit._ Looking up at Lestrade, Sherlock tried his best not to look like a guilty puppy.

"Sherlock? What on earth are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, concerned for his friend.

"Uh, well I was just chasing a suspicious person and he got away so I thought I would just-"

"Sherlock we both know that is a lie. Why are you really here?" Lestrade said after giving Sherlock a once over, folding his arms over his chest, trying his very best to look like the authoritative figure he was. 

"I..." was all Sherlock could muster, feeling defeated. Lestrade didn't need his detective training to notice. 

"Alright sunshine, what is wrong? I've noticed you've felt a bit off lately." At this, Lestrade placed a friendly hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Look at me. Please."

Looking up at Lestrade, Sherlock seemed to calm down a bit, still not speaking to his friend. "Come on then, I'll call John and we can get back to the flat." 

"No!" Sherlock cried suddenly, panicking at the thought of John finding out.

Giving Sherlock a concerned look, Lestrade said, "Sherlock... Is there a reason that you don't want me to help?" looking into Sherlock's eyes, searching for hints of drug use. 

"I'm fine Lestrade, I just think that calling John would be a bit much. I can manage getting back to the flat just fine on my own." Sherlock said, trying his best to look like he wasn't on the verge of passing out. He was still tired from the run, and black spots were creeping into his vision for the third time in the past couple of days

Noticing that Sherlock really wasn't with it, Lestrade felt his concern only grow. He wasn't going to let Sherlock off of the hook, whatever was wrong with him wasn't something that he shouldn't be handling on his own. Seeing that if he called John, Sherlock would not forgive him for years to come, Lestrade came up with another idea.

"You know what, Sherlock?" Lestrade said, Sherlock anticipating his next words. "I'll make you a deal. Either I call John and he can tell me what is going on with you, or you and I can sit down in a cafe and discuss it." Sherlock felt his stomach twinge at the idea of going to a cafe. It was bad enough that he was having to eat again at home, so the concept of having to eat in a public place with other _people_ seemed horrifying. Everyone would see him eating and just  _know_ how little control he had. As scary as going to a cafe seemed to be, having John find out about his little escape wasn't going to help his situation. Last thing he needed was for his best friend to send him off to a clinic. Realizing that there was no other option, Sherlock did what he had to do. 

"We can go to the cafe."

 

~SH~

 

John was beginning to become frantic. It had been just over an hour since Sherlock had gone to his bedroom, and only fifteen minutes since he discovered Sherlock was missing from his room, the window open with the smell of the city blowing into his room.  _Where is he? How could I have not seen this coming? I need to make sure he is okay... What if he is exercising? What if... What if he is doing drugs?!_ John was on the brink of a full blown panic attack when he heard his mobile vibrate from the living room. Rushing over to see if Sherlock had texted him back, not knowing whether to be happy or angry when it was Mycroft.

Did my brother go missing again? -MH

Responding as quickly as possible, John typed, 

Yes. Where is he? -JW

From my most recent report, Sherlock is currently with Detective Inspector Lestrade. -MH

Sighing lightly and feeling a bit relieved, John decided it would be a good idea to text the detective inspector. Fumbling to get the text message typed, John had to stop his hand from shaking as he pressed send. 

Greg is Sherlock with you? Is he alright? -JW

Not too long after, Lestrade replied.

He is with me and he is fine for now. We're at a cafe, so don't worry. -GL

Combing his hands through his hair, John considered what Lestrade had just told him.  _Is he really at a cafe? Is he even going to be eating at the cafe? This is... this might be progress. I will have to hope that he eats something sooner or later, any more of this and he'll end up dead._

 

~SH~

 

The scent of coffee cake wafted through the air, burying itself deep inside of Sherlock's nose. All around people were sitting at little tables, talking to friends or working quietly on computers. To anybody else, it would have seemed peaceful, calm. To Sherlock, it was torture. Lestrade and Sherlock were seated by the window seat, looking out at the gloomy London weather, dark clouds signaling that is was certain to rain later on. 

Lestrade had gotten Sherlock to order a small slab of coffeecake, complete with little almond bits in it, along with a coffee with a bit of milk.  The detective inspector had ordered himself the same thing, except his coffee was a larger size. Eyeing Sherlock's barely touched coffee cake, Lestrade couldn't stop the feeling of worry that was pooling in the pit of his stomach. After ten minutes of uncomfortable silence, Lestrade sighed audibly. 

"Sherlock, I need you to tell me what is going on." Lestrade said, making Sherlock look up from staring at his feet. Sherlock swallowed, trying to ease the nervous energy in the back of his throat. 

"I'm fine Lestrade," Sherlock replied. Looking at Lestrade, Sherlock knew that he wasn't going to have it. Not today. _Shit._

"Sherlock, for the second time, we both know that is a lie. I need you to tell me in full detail what is going on with you."

"Or what?" Sherlock snarled, annoyed that he wasn't going to get out of it.

"I won't let you work cases." Lestrade said, yielding an impressive reaction from the consulting detective. 

"You wouldn't dare."

"Oh yes I would Sherlock. You know I would. So what is it going to be? Tell me or not work cases?" Lestrade threatened. What happened next Lestrade had not anticipated. Sherlock actually looked  _defeated._ What little colour was in his face had drained out completely, making his ashen cheekbones seem to contrast against the marble smooth paleness of his skin. Ruffling his hair a bit, Sherlock started to lean forward, as though he were about to say something. Opening his mouth only to close it again a second later, Sherlock seemed to be at war with himself, unable to start speaking. Noting that his chest hurt, Sherlock tried his best to find the right words. It occurred to the brunette that it was the first time he would have to actually talk about his problem. Though John obviously knew exactly what was going on, he had never had to physically admit it out loud. It felt like if he said it, it would be set in stone.  _Sherlock Holmes. The great Sherlock Holmes, has an eating disorder._

The entire time the debate was going on inside his head, the detective inspector watched Sherlock with concern.  _What has gotten into him?_

"I have a problem," Sherlock said suddenly, surprising Lestrade. Leaning forward patiently, Lestrade tried his best to look supportive, knowing that Sherlock was about to tell him something of importance.

"I have a problem..." Sherlock repeated, hating that he was reduced to something he despised. "I don't eat. I don't just not eat, I don't think I can." Stunned into silence, the DI had no idea what to say. He hadn't seen Sherlock look so fragile since he was helping him get off drugs, when his brain was too addled with withdrawal to understand the world around him. Sherlock took a few shuddering breaths, attempting to pull himself back together again, to put the Holmesian mask back on his face that he and his brother were so well known for. Just as he was about to try to get up and leave, he felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes that he hadn't realized he had closed, he looked into the DI's eyes and saw only pity.  _He pities me._ The pity made Sherlock feel sick to his stomach.  _I'm a Holmes! I don't need anyone!_

Feeling energy surge through him, Sherlock quickly threw Lestrade to the floor of the cafe, earning gasps from people sitting at nearby tables, and quickly rushing out the door. By the time Lestrade had recollected himself and gotten off of the floor to look for Sherlock, the man was nowhere to be seen. Insisting to the people around him that were staring that he was fine, he pulled out his phone and made a call.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating for so long! It's been ages since I posted a chapter, so I think this is well overdue. I got caught up with schoolwork and had put all of my energy into that. Still, I should have at least let you guys know what was going on. Anyway, hope you enjoyed! I would love if you guys commented to let me know what you think, I take suggestions! Even a simple hello is enough to inspire me to keep writing :) Thanks for reading!


	9. Heroin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter this time guys :) TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS AND TALK OF DRUG USE

Seconds after leaving the cafe, Sherlock had realized that he had made a huge mistake.  _Now Lestrade is going to tell John, they're going to send me away... No! Don't let that happen!_ _You've screwed up Sherlock. You've disappointed everyone and now there will be hell to pay for it. I can't go back to the flat just yet, John will be angry. I can't do anything to undo what I've done..._ Running past the staring passersby, Sherlock started to map out in his head where he was going. After an unknown amount of time, Sherlock finally reached the house he had not seen in a very long while. Looking up at the worn down establishment, he noted the new sets of graffiti covering. Opening the rusty handle, he was hit with the scent of sweat and drugs. Peering around the room he saw unconscious teenagers, barely acknowledging his presence with their drug addled minds. It took only minutes of roaming around for him to find who he was looking for. Sitting on a cardboard box in the corner of the room was a young adult with greasy hair slicked onto his forehead. He was attempting to kindle a small fire with a lighter, and was so caught up in the

"Eric." Sherlock said in his deep voice, slightly startling the man. After blinking furiously in attempt to clear the drug haze in his eyes, Eric's eyes widened.

"Sherlock! Sherlock 'Olmes!" he exclaimed. He got up and patted Sherlock on the back, acting like they were old friends. "Blimey you've gotten skinny, didn't think it was possible to loose more weight for you. Anyway, what can I do for ya?" Sherlock simply stared at Eric, his eyes letting him know exactly what he wanted. "Oh! Well didn't realize ya were still into this. How much you want?"

"Just enough to put me under for a while, just to take it's course."

"Ah okay, well it's gonna cost ya." Eric replied, fishing a syringe out of his bag. Reaching into a small pouch on the inside of his coat, Sherlock pulled out the fifty pound note that he kept for emergencies. "Sorry mate but I don't have any change." Eric said, grinning to himself and passing the syringe and a small bag of heroin to the consulting detective. Hurriedly Sherlock put it in his coat, deciding to save it for later, when he wasn't surrounded by the scum of the earth. Calling his thanks over his shoulder, Sherlock pulled his coat tighter over his body, facing the cold of London.

 

~SH~

 

A good hour later, Sherlock finally returned to the flat. People across London were just starting to make their way back home, making traffic almost impossible. Sherlock was grateful for not having been given change, as it forced him to walk the entire way. The more calories he burned, the better. Walking up to the front door, he groaned internally. The knocker was straight. Mycroft was here. Feeling inside his coat to make sure the syringe and heroin were properly in place and not visible from the outside, Sherlock felt confident that Mycroft wouldn't be able to deduce his little 'relapse'. Sherlock opened the door with a creak, only to get a strong whiff of perfume once he entered the flat.  _Molly? What is she doing here? Wait, Molly and Mycroft?_ Looking at the floor only confirmed his worst suspicion. On the staircase was mud, mud that he had seen earlier on Lestrade's shoe.  _Oh God... It's an intervention..._ _  
_

Just as Sherlock was turning around to leave, Mycroft's voice stopped him right in his tracks.

"Sherlock, if you could please come upstairs it would make this whole process a lot easier. We're waiting. I wouldn't recommend leaving, my men are out front now and will stop you if you try." Sherlock cursed under his breath, and started to slowly trudge up the stairs. By the time he made it to the top of the stairs, he was out of breath, panting slightly. Looking into the living room, the first person he spotted was Mycroft, sitting smugly in his seat. Stepping into the room, Sherlock could feel all the eyes on him. John, Mycroft, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were scattered around the room. Molly looked at Sherlock with a look that emitted pity. A cold feeling slid into his stomach. This was it. There was no more running away from things, he was going to have to face what he had done and try to avoid getting sent to rehabilitation. 

"Why don't you sit Sherlock? Make yourself comfortable, this might take a while." Sitting down in a wooden chair that had been placed down right next to the door, Sherlock started to stare into space. He was putting walls up in his head, protecting himself in his mind palace. John was staring at Sherlock from his regular armchair which had been turned to face Sherlock's, a grimace on his face. Lestrade was leaning against the table, in his typical stance of crossed arms. Molly and Mrs. Hudson were sitting on the sofa, Molly closest to Sherlock and the door. From the way they were all set up, it was clear to Sherlock that Mycroft was the one in charge of things. 

"You already know why you're here Sherlock, so lets just get to the important parts. We are all here because, well, we're concerned." Sherlock, looked at Mycroft, shocked that his brother would admit to having sentimental feelings. "You know how these things work, so we're going to go around and try and tell you why each of us are concerned."

John took this as a sign to go first, and cleared his throat. "Sherlock, you're my best friend. I care about you, but if you don't stop this... this not eating, I'm scared that I won't get to spend as much time with you as I would like. I know that you're stubborn and that you have this superiority complex, but you are not above eating. It's a basic human need." Sherlock just sat there, silent as a statue. Knowing that Sherlock was not going to cooperate, John continued, "Sherlock you know for a fact this can kill you. You saw physical evidence of that just a few days ago with Molly. In fact, why don't you tell him exactly what will happen if you don't eat, Molly."

Molly fumbled a bit with her words, as she wasn't expecting to start speaking just yet. "Uh well, if you don't eat Sherlock, your health will just deteriorate into barely anything. In fact, that's why I thought, actually knew, you had a problem as soon as you walked into the morgue. I saw the thin hair on your arms, the very same kind most anorexics have. Your face was, is, sunken in and the coat was just so loose. This is just the visual stuff of course," picking up confidence and talking speed, Molly continued, "Some of the more dangerous things that happen are things like kidney failure, and heart attacks, just like the man we saw had. Sherlock, please stop this. I don't want it to be your body on the table next." Sherlock started to break out into a cold sweat, unable to stop. It was just too much for him to have everyone he cared about all trying to stop him. Even Mrs. Hudson knew now. 

"Remember that I won't let you on cases until you gain some weight," Lestrade said, breaking the brief silence. "You even admitted to me today that you have a problem, so you can't deny that anymore." Feeling his breath become more ragged, Sherlock tried his best to stay calm.

"Are you alright dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked, "You don't look too great, even compared to how you already are." 

All eyes trained on Sherlock, the consulting detective cleared his throat before saying, "I'm fine Mrs. Hudson. It's just that I didn't think you would all care so much, why do you actually?" Sherlock asked, tilting his head the way he usually did when trying to figure something out.i

"We care because we're your friends and family, Sherlock." John replied, "Your problems aren't just your problems anymore." Everyone was silent for a couple of seconds before Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was staring at his arm. Looking down, the brunette realized that he had started to scratch the crook of his elbow absentmindedly. The exact spot he would stick the syringe when he was shooting up. Stopping slowly, as to not arouse suspicion from anybody else who had not noticed, Sherlock swallowed. _Does Mycroft know? If he does..._

"If you could be so kind as to take your coat off," Mycroft said abruptly, startling his brother out of his thoughts. Not wanting to alert anyone of the items in his coat, Sherlock carefully took it off and placed over the back of the chair he was sitting on. Suddenly feeling naked without his coat, Sherlock became all too aware as to how without it, almost all of his ribs could be seen through the thin material of his silk shirt. He was still in a cold sweat, which also became more apparent without his coat to shield him. "Detective Lestrade, if you could please go over to Sherlock and take his coat." Lestrade gave a confused look to Mycroft, before obliging and starting to walk over to Sherlock.

"Why does he need my coat?" Sherlock asked defiantly, starting to panic slightly. The panic was minute, as only Mycroft could pick up on it. John was frowning at Sherlock, getting a bit worried that Sherlock was getting defensive about the coat. Mycroft didn't answer Sherlock's question, only watched while Lestrade picked it up in his arms. Sherlock was scowling, trying vainly to hide his fear. "Now if you could please go back to the table and reach in the small pocket on the inside of the coat." At this, Sherlock went deathly still, unsure as to what to do. Noticing that Sherlock had frozen up, John glanced at Mycroft, trying to figure out what was going on. Sherlock felt panic like never before as Lestrade fumbled with his coat, looking for the pocket that Mycroft had told him about. Suddenly, Lestrade's eyes went wide and he turned to look at Sherlock, pain and disappointment in his eyes. As Lestrade pulled the syringe and bag of heroin out of Sherlock's coat and put it on the table, small gasps came from around the room.

"Sherlock..." John whispered, barely audible. Molly had tears in her eyes, devastated that her friend was hurting so much that he would turn to drugs again. Mrs. Hudson was just the same, muttering "Oh Sherlock" under her breath with agony. 

"Sherlock... did you use any?" John asked, trying to regain himself. Sherlock could see him searching his eyes, looking for dilated pupils or anything else that would indicate that he had used any drugs.

"I-" Before Sherlock could say anything, he felt his heart surge forward.  _Shit._ Sherlock didn't have time to think before his body collapsed on floor, chest constricting more than ever before, stopping him from breathing before losing consciousness. 

"Sherlock!" John, Molly, and Lestrade all cried at once. John was at his side first, taking his pulse and listening for breathing.

"Oh my God, he's having a heart attack! Mycroft, call 999! Molly, perform CPR! Lestrade, take Mrs. Hudson downstairs and try to calm her down. He's gone into cardiac arrest, so we need to restart his heart!" John ordered, the army doctor in him taking complete control. Mrs. Hudson was just in the corner, crying to herself and feeling helpless in helping Sherlock just as Lestrade was helping in escorting the poor old woman down the stairs. While Molly tried to induce artificial respiration, breathing deeply into Sherlock's lungs, John worked on pumping his chest rhythmically. _One and two and three and four and..._ The room became nothing but the sound of Mycroft on the phone and the desperate attempt to save the dying consulting detective. 

_Sherlock, what have you done..._

_Please don't die Sherlock, please don't die. Not like this..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for giving Sherlock a heart attack guys! I've known for a while that I was going to do this, I have foreshadowed a heart attack quite a lot, using common symptoms as a guideline. Hope you guys enjoyed the chapter! Please leave a comment or review so I know what you are thinking! I love hearing from you so any feedback is highly appreciated :)


	10. Yellow

The first thing Sherlock became aware of was the cottony feel of rough bed sheets. The smell of hand sanitizer and purified air hit his nose, making him cringe internally. He didn’t open his eyes even though he knew where he was. Faintly, from his right, he heard the sound of light breathing. Only one person would stay by his bedside until he would wake up.  John…  Pulling together the courage to open his eyes, Sherlock looked right over to John, finding him with his head on the foot of the hospital bed, sleeping. Deciding that it would be best to let his friend sleep, Sherlock used the time he had to think about all that he had done. It took a moment before Sherlock had realized he didn’t know how he got to the hospital.  What was I doing? How did I get here… Think, Sherlock, think. You got home, it was an intervention. Then I… Oh! My heart…  Instinctively reaching up to his chest, Sherlock found that his arms were bound for the second time in a couple of days. The ruffling sound Sherlock caused in moving woke John, who had barely been asleep in the first place. 

 

“Oh, you’re awake,” John said, stifling a yawn, stretching his aching limbs. 

 

“Clearly,” Sherlock replied, sounding bored. Taking in his surroundings, Sherlock noted the stock of ‘Get Well Soon!’ cards lining the window sill.  Probably Molly and Mrs. Hudson, such a thing they would do.  The walls were a sickening shade of yellow, obviously painted like that to make the room seem happy. To Sherlock, it made him nauseous. It didn’t help that grey clouds were forming in the sky, casting a murky light across the room. There was an IV running into his arm, most likely pumping him full of nutrients and calories. John noticed Sherlock staring at the IV with distaste, so he took it as a sign to start speaking.

 

“You almost died you know. Did die actually.” John said, earning a turned head from Sherlock. “Your heart, it had basically stopped beating. You were officially dead for eight seconds. You were dead, Sherlock.” On the last word John’s voice cracked. He put his face in his hands, shaking his head from side to side slowly. Not knowing what to say, Sherlock laid there, stunned and unsure of what to do next.

 

“I… I died?” Sherlock asked, fear evident in his voice, the deep baritone laced with insecurity.

 

“Yeah… you did.” 

 

After a couple of seconds, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak again. 

 

“So what now?” John straightened his shirt collar and ruffled his hair.  Oh… 

 

“Well, simply speaking, we all want you to go somewhere you can recover. Somewhere you can heal and not have everyday stress to hinder your recovery.”

 

Starting slowly, Sherlock said, “So… you want me to leave?”

 

Feeling his face drop, John said, “Oh Sherlock, no I don’t want you to leave-”   


 

“So what do you want me to do? Just remove myself from your life?” Sherlock said, raising his voice slightly, spitting out the last words. 

 

“Sherlock, we just think it would be best if you spent some time recovering at a… rehabilitation,” John said, uncertainty tainting his voice, while watching for any reaction from Sherlock. The consulting detective seemed to be at war with himself, his face was contorted and he seemed more fragile than ever before.  

 

After a minute of consideration, Sherlock closed his eyes and asked, “How long will I be there?”

 

“It really depends on how quickly you recover. If you put in effort to gain weight, then it might only be a few months. You’re so underweight you’ll have to gain at least six or so kilos before they will let you out again.”

 

“Six kilos?” Sherlock croaked, not really being able to believe that amount he needed to gain. John nodded glumly. “What about my work? I need my work to survive John, I can’t- I can’t be away for so long…”

 

“You could get visitors in the later stages of your recovery, and you can make phone calls three times a week, if you meet the weight goal. I know it sounds difficult, but you getting healthy is all that really matters right now.” It was obvious that John was trying to be gentle, removing the detective from his work would be difficult, if not impossible, and painful for the both of them. John couldn’t even imagine Baker Street without his friend. Even though he would hate to admit it, he would actually miss finding toes in the vegetable drawer of the refrigerator. It would be strange to wake up in the morning on his own accord, not being waken up by the sound of Sherlock’s graceful violin. Knowing that Sherlock was starting to understand his predicament, John said, “Sadly, you won’t be able to do experiments, but you will be able to play the violin in music therapy.” At this, Sherlock scoffed.

 

“Music therapy? They think my, my eating disorder will just go away if I play an instrument?” Sherlock shook his head, unbelieving. 

 

“Sherlock, you of all people should understand that it’s a good way of releasing emotion. It will really help you get better. On another note, you will have to stay in hospital for at least another four days, until your vitals stabilize. Maybe a while more if it takes longer than expected to recover from the initial shock. You did have a heart attack, after all.” Suddenly, a bolt of lightning followed by a clap of thunder came from outside of the window. It started to pour down with rain, room turning a yellow grey from the absence of sunlight streaming into the room. The two of them spent comfortable silence as the sound of rain calmed them. The pitter patter of little raindrops had a therapeutic effect on the both of them, the cold humidity seeped through the window, thick air surrounding them like a blanket.

 

“We can talk you know, if you want to, about the drugs,” Sherlock turned his head, feeling tired from the rain, “I know that you must have been really affected by talking about, it, if you went out and bought heroin to deal with it. You’re lucky, you know. Lestrade agreed to not press charges, says he’ll let it slide just this once.” 

 

After finding the right words, Sherlock replied, “I guess I can be grateful for that. I don’t know what to say being completely honest, I thought I was invincible. I always knew the risks of what I was doing, and after trying to talk about it with Lestrade, it hit me. I was in deep, far deeper than I had ever intended. I thought that if I took some heroin, I would just forget. I needed to dull my senses, as stupid as that sounds,” Looking at John to make sure he was still listening, Sherlock continued, “Looking back at it now I realize it was a stupid idea from the start, but it felt like the only thing I could do at the time…”

 

“Sherlock, I know it was more than difficult for you to talk to Lestrade, but you could have come to me... Why didn’t you?” John inquired, curious as to why Sherlock would risk getting arrested and overdosing over coming to speak to his best friend.

 

“I knew I was in trouble, deep trouble. I couldn’t face coming back to the flat, I was afraid you would shout and leave me. Then I would be alone and…” Feeling tears prickling the back of his eyes, Sherlock tried his best to stay composed. Noticing this, John put his hand on Sherlock’s, rubbing soothing circles into the back of his hand. John gave a lopsided smile when he saw how disgusted Sherlock looked, as though the very notion of being soothed offended him.  


 

“Sherlock, don’t you think for one second that I would leave you alone to deal with this, you’re my best friend and it would kill me if anything more happened to you. I can’t imagine the pain it puts you in to simply gain a pound, but you have to do it. If, when you’re in rehab, you ever need a reminder as to why to get better, just remember that I am always going to be here for you and you never have to be afraid that I will leave you.” John said, giving him his warmest smile. 

 

Letting everything sink in, Sherlock exhaled deeply through his nose. He thought of being away from work and of being away from John. It seemed odd to him that he never minded not being near people before, and then John waltzes into his life and changes everything. Smiling to himself, Sherlock shut his eyes and slowly sank into his mind, finding he needed to investigate such an odd feeling.  


 

Taking it as a cue to leave, John got up and padded to the door. John looked back just before he left the room, eyes focusing on the mop of curly black hair that sat atop his friend's head.

 

_ Maybe he wants to get better after all. _

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm such a piece of shit, sorry for not updating! Everything in my life has been changing recently, but that is not excuse. Anyway, please comment so that I know how you guys feel!
> 
> Thanks for reading! ^.^


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